Blest is the na­tion where the Lord
Hath fixed His gra­cious throne,
Where He re­veals His heav’n­ly Word
And calls their tribes His own.

His eye with in­fi­nite sur­vey
Does the whole be­hold;
He formed us all of eq­ual clay
And knows our fee­ble mold.

Kings are not res­cued by the force
Of ar­mies from the grave;
Nor speed nor cour­age of a horse
Can the bold rid­er save.

Vain is the strength of beasts or men,
To hope for safe­ty thence;
But ho­ly souls from God ob­tain
A sure and strong de­fense.

God is their fear, and God their trust;
When plagues or fa­mine spread,
His watch­ful eye se­cures the just
Among ten thou­sand dead.

Lord, let our hearts in Thee re­joice,
And bless us from Thy throne;
For we have made Thy Word our choice,
And trust Thy grace alone.